The Smoking White City
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: The city was smoking by the time the ship was in close enough reach of the shore, and being unable to distinguish the black from the brown made it impossible to know which side the tides lay - made it impossible to know if what they had brought to turn the tides would be on time...or too late.


**A/N:** Written for the 1st Contest in LOTR Contests, for the song vide of "King and Lionheart". This is movie-canon for the third movie– with a few artistic touches. :D The book doesn't have quite the same scene.

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**The Smoking White City**

The city was smoking when they arrived.

The sea growled under them in anger, tossing its dark-rimmed waves so they rolled in a disarray towards the shore, climbing like clambering horses before falling back. The burning city was too far away to reach, and not if they filled the near-empty ships with water could they put the fire out.

Aragorn, from his spot on the stern, closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. The smoke was an ill-omen; the raging sea still covered all sounds from the land, and the tiny specks on the shore could have been anything. Orc or dwarf or elf or man. Alive…or dead. The shimmering white city was easier to see – but it looked whole, untarnished. As though the smoke came from elsewhere, and no stone or mortar had been touched. But that was impossible, for beyond the white walls of Minis Tirith was the pillaged lands of Gondor, and beyond that was a land that burned with fire too strong for smoke.

He could see nothing beyond the white and grey of Minas Tirith, but he knew what lay there. Mordor, with its Orc-crawling lands and its dry-bone lands. And that eye which swept over everything.

He looked up; the black pupil was visible from the ships: a slit focused on the smoking Minas Tirith.

Aragorn gripped the ship's wheel tightly, eyes narrowed to the horizon. Behind him, the legion of dead soldiers muttered softly amongst themselves. In front, some of the black dots had moved slightly closer to the shore. Orcs, probably; they had ambushed the Southerners for these ships after all. Orcs looking out to sea for their reinforcements, for overwhelming power that would crush the last of the resistance.

_Or the last of the Orcs_, Aragorn thought, narrowing his eyes as the ship inched closer to the shore. He could see the flag of the Rohirrim – a tiny little thing fluttering in the breeze from his distance – but with it, a wave of brown dots attacking the black.

Looking more closely, he could make out Elven armour scattered about as well: the last of the Elves that had come to assist them at Helm's Deep. And the grey specks of enemy elephants.

The legion of dead growled as one. 'This – ' their leader began.

'This is a war that may never have come to be,' Aragorn said quietly, 'if it hadn't been for the actions of a great many people.' People like the Undead King, who had chosen not to risk his army for Sauron's defeat. Like Isildur, who had chosen to keep the Ring instead of destroy it. People like Gandalf, who had chosen to trust to something small an unknown – _and very brave_, Aragorn thought, picturing Frodo and Sam and hoping, preying, that they were still alive and well.

The only evidence they had was the Eye that gazed upon a battlefield already piled high with corpses. The dead stirred restlessly behind him – and it was ironic, he reflected, as the dead were already dead. And yet, here they were, clearly unnerved. He was unnerved as well, because there were so many specks of brown littering the land, mixed with black. So many black still standing. It was impossible to see which way the tide would turn.

The sea roared and the ship shook; the wheel tried to turn in his grasp, but he held it tight and directed it towards the shore. They inched slowly but surely closer, and he made out a star of white in the crowd, pointed at the skies where the Nazgul swooped.

_Gandalf…_

On the ship to his right, he saw Legolas fit an arrow into his bow.

_You'll never reach, my friend._

But the Nazgul were holding their attack; it seemed the Wizard's strength had not yet failed. Neither had the flag of the Rohirrim. Gondor had sent no flag into battle it seemed, or had sent it elsewhere. He doubted Gandalf would have let Denethor have his way for so long. Gondor still stood as well.

Aragorn willed the boat faster; the Orcs were bigger now, distinguishable. The shore approaching. To his left, he saw Gimli ready his axe. To his front, he saw a – another – horse go down, its rider stabbing up with sword until the enemy sword came down upon him. Saw men fighting to their last breath, desperate to save their land. Saw the Nazgul swoop lower and lower each time, and Gandalf sink lower as well.

_We're coming…_

He heard the sound of unsheathing swords before he could loosen Andúril from his own scabbard. The dead king met his eyes. 'We will fight,' he said, 'as we should have fought long ago.'

There was regret in his tone. Aragorn hardened himself. The time for regret had gone; he too had regretted, regretted the blood that ran through his veins, regretted the years he had spent as a wild Ranger in the North, regretted the love he had felt…but the time for regret had passed. What lay ahead was the present.

'Fight for today,' he said. 'Fight so that we may scatter the ash of that Eye upon the plains.'

Minas Tirith burnt still, its white walls crumbling and crawling with fighters of all colours: those of Gondor trying valiantly to reclaim their keep. Those of Rohan sheltering their injured. Those from Mordor trying to crush the enemy once and for all.

Aragorn saw Gandalf fall to his knees. He saw the riders of Rohan line up in one straggling line: all that remained standing from the house of the Horse Lords. He saw the Orcs feral grin, and their faces as they turned to the shore. Saw his ship slide upon the shore.

He unsheathed his sword and readied himself to jump. Heard the Orc's dry rasping speech calling him down, as though he was a friend and comrade. Saw Gimli and Legolas likewise posed.

He grinned, then sprung down onto the sand with a nimbleness only an elf could beat – and beat he did, for Legolas landed beside him without a sound. Gimli flanked his left, light imprints left from heavy boots, and clean axe blade gleaming for blood.

The Orcs' eyes widened; they stepped back. Aragorn let the grin fade and raised his sword as the dead army flooded out of the ships behind him. And then he ran. Ran towards the sea of black, slicing with Andúril as he went. Ran towards the White Wizard who had renewed his hope and the Nazgul who pulled back, screeching in pain. Ran towards the smoking city that was Minas Tirith and his birthright.

Behind, the legion of dead followed, fearing no blade nor arrow as they sliced through ranks of Orcs. Riders and soldiers stood once more, the embers of hope rekindled as the tide turned. Arrows flew from Legolas' bow, and Gimli's axe swung ferociously in the air, and finally, finally, Minas Tirith was left to smoulder in the darkness as Sauron withdrew his bitter eye in defeat and left Gondor spewed with the dead carcases of Orcs and blackened men.


End file.
